Paper Pieces
by Chasuka
Summary: Sorry homophobes, I'm not dead yet. ^^ First posting in over a year, spooky. Anyway! Daiken, angst, blood, yaoi, overall darkness. Whee!


1 Paper Pieces  
  
A.N.: Oh dear. Would you look at that. Not only am I NOT retired from fic- writing and Digimon in general (as I had originally thought), but I wrote a dark, angsty Daiken. Ha, guess I'm still a Digimon writer after all. ^^;;; Who knew. DOWN WITH KENYAKO!! .!!! Anyway! Light yaoi, nothing too graphic (romantically speaking, anyway), blood, and angst. Lots of angst. Oh yes, angst is good. Oh, and if I owned Digital Monsters, Sora would spend a lot more time at the mercy of large, evil, poorly-smelling Digimon, and if I owned Michelle Branch or her song Paper Pieces, I would be a very happy little fangirl indeed. (It's a good song. Go download it or buy it or hijack it or something, I command you. o)  
  
The air in Ken Ichijouji's room was thick and humid, almost tropical. The air conditioning was broken in his room of the apartment, for some reason or other, but the ceiling fan spinning quietly in the dark blew a slight breeze across the room, a minor relief. It wasn't unbearably hot, as it had been the earlier week, but it was still hot enough to cause a drop of sweat to roll down Daisuke Motomiya's forehead as he lay motionless, staring at the ceiling.  
  
Laying spread-eagled across his sleeping bag, the teenager gave every outward appearance of being asleep, save for his brandy brown eyes, open and staring calmly upwards. His breathing was slow and deep, as if sleep really had claimed him. But despite this, he was in actuality immersed in observation. Through the window to the right, a patch of moonlight spilled into the room, illuminating select areas in shades of blue and silver. Daisuke's eyes followed the moonbeams spread precariously across the ceiling, watching as they settled into patches on the white surface, only to be churned up and thrust into a momentary shadow by the perpetual turning of the blade of the fan. His ears drank in the sound of Ken's breathing to his side, quietly reveling in his friend's peaceful, dreamless sleep. It didn't seem all that long ago that Ken's life had been plagued with nightmares and nameless demons, and Daisuke had been infinitely grateful as the mental torture had begun to subside for the former Kaiser. His skin was oddly aware of every touch; the cotton pajamas wrapped around his skin as if it were a cocoon, the heavy mid-August heat weighing against him, anchoring him where he lay.  
  
It wasn't unusual for Daisuke to spend the night at the Ichijouji residence. During school breaks, holidays, and vacations, the two practically lived with one another, spending about two weeks or so inhabiting one of their homes until the respective mother of the house kicked them out to go set up camp at the other's home. Through this, their families had become intertwined; Ken's mother always welcomed Daisuke as if she were her own, and Jun had taken to terrorizing the both of them, having decided that Ken's "guest" status didn't apply as he took up an extra twenty minutes in the bathroom each day that could be used for furthering her unsurpassable beauty. So when Ken had poked his head into the living room of his apartment earlier that day to ask if Daisuke could spend the night, it hadn't been considered much as a request; more as a statement, a warning to keep the refrigerator stocked and earplugs handy.  
  
Carefully, so as not to wake Chibimon, curled by his side and lost in a dream that no doubt circled around the topic of food in vast quantities, Daisuke pulled himself slowly to his bare feet. The heat didn't seem quite so strong and all consuming now. Silently, he moved across the room and slipped his hand around the cold metal doorknob, savoring the contrast to his heated palm for a moment. Pausing, he turned around slightly, his gaze landing on his best friend. In this state, asleep and bathed in moonlight, sheets tousled around his form, it was much easier to see the boy for what he was; timid, unsure, and lonely. A smile traced Daisuke's lips, and for a split second he was nearly overcome with a sudden, rushing urge to touch him, smooth his hair out of his face, hold his hand. With a brief, violent shake of his head, however, Daisuke twisted the knob and opened the door, padding soundlessly into the hall.  
  
The force of the heat instantly diminished as the air-conditioned hallway atmosphere rolled over him, and the begoggled teenager gave an inaudible sigh of relief at the temperature drop. He didn't need a light to navigate the hallway, knowing it a far throw better than his own home in the middle of the night (rare was the occasion when he wound up in a Ichijouji broom closet on his way to the bathroom or for a glass of water, though Jun found him dozing amongst the mops and brooms at Five A.M. more often than one would expect). Gliding silently down the small corridor, he passed Ken's parents' room with a grateful thought to their perpetual kindness to him and slipped into their bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a gentle click.  
  
Making the sure the door was both closed and locked, Daisuke's hand brushed along the wall for a moment before his fingers collided with the light switch and a harsh, man-made light flooded the room, illuminating it. Squinting slightly in the sudden brightness, he took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust as well as to scrutinize his surroundings, though he knew them well and they rarely changed. Covered in spotless white-patterned linoleum, the room was as much of a violent contrast to his home bathroom as one could imagine; there was no hint of grime or age on the perfectly white walls, which gleamed as brightly as the day they had first been installed. The bathtub was spotless, a small array of shampoos, conditioners, and soaps hanging in a small rack suspended from the showerhead. The shower curtain was a sort of garden design, made of pastel greens and blues, arranged simply and neatly on the overhead rod. There wasn't an array of wet or dirty towels hanging disorderly across it, or a previously used washcloth hanging suspended upon the bath spout; the actual built-in soap dish contained no soap, but looked as clean as the rest of the fixture. The toilet across from it was much the same, white and meticulously clean. The towel rack held four neatly folded towels; one for each member of the family, and a spare for Daisuke ("You're part of the family, and you should be treated like you are," Mrs. Ichijouji had insisted when he had commented on the fact). The sink was completely void of the make-up and accessories that usually covered the surface of the sink in his own bathroom, the only objects being a small green cup made of a thick plastic and a digital clock radio that displayed the fact that it was 3:09 A.M. in glowing red letters. Directly across from it was a small storage cabinet, and Daisuke's intentions.  
  
The long-legged teen crossed the room easily in two steps, his eyes coasting to a stop on his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror before he had actually reached his intended goal. He frowned slightly at what he saw. A boy of fifteen; not a man, a boy. Reasonably tall, just south of six feet; discounting, of course, the crown of spiked hair and the legendary pair of goggles that perched perpetually on the maroon nest. Large, honest brandy brown eyes, well tanned skin, and a slight soccer-derived build that was covered by the aquamarine pajamas he was clothed in. What, exactly, had he become? The person frowning out at him from the mirror was familiar, of course, but it was a stranger all the same.  
  
Why was it he always had to screw up whatever was important? His life was good right now. He had Chibimon, he no longer had to hide his destiny from his family, and he had a wonderful, supportive group of friends. He had a few complaints, of course, and his school scores were nothing to sing praises about, but he passed. He had a good future, his parents provided well – he never went without, and most importantly he had Ken's friendship and trust. The old Daisuke, the person he had been able to define, who hadn't confused and frightened him, would have been satisfied with this, but for some reason, it simply wasn't enough. He wanted… not more, exactly, but he wanted something different. Something much different from what he had now. He didn't want to watch Miyako giggle and cling to Ken's arm anymore, acting like the mere teenaged ditz of a girlfriend everyone knew she was not. He hated her for being in the way of what he wanted most, and he hated himself for hating her, for hating Ken's fixation with her, for wanting what he wanted, and for never being able to accept what he was given and be content.  
  
Overcome with a sudden, mad desire to smash the mirror, Daisuke bit down hard on the interior of his cheek, ignoring the faint taste of blood that consequently flooded over his mouth. Spinning, he threw open the storage cabinet, eyes raking over it's contents. There were three shelves stacked up from the floor, each holding a different array of spare toiletries and accessories. Everything was neat and organized, sitting peacefully in its respective slots with a sort of calm rationality that forced Daisuke to grind his teeth in frustration. Things were never really like that. People didn't have clear, obvious places they were meant to be, or apparent, specific uses. Not all people had a reason to be. Real life was never, could never be calm and clear and organized.  
  
It only took a moment for Daisuke to find the item he had been searching for. It wasn't the first time he had done this in the Ichijouji residence. Moving quickly, he closed his hand over the small beige box and perched upon the closed toilet, setting the object he had retrieved on the edge of the sink next to him. His fingers moved numbly, clumsily as he opened the tiny package, as if he weren't actually controlling them, but when he finally succeeded, he gently pried one of the contents of the box out and held the razor blade up slightly, watching as it caught the harsh yellow light of the overhead bulb. It was beautiful; in it's own way. Crafted perfectly, no mistakes or imperfections. It existed for one solid reason, and had no doubts of itself, no extra purposes or curiosities. It was simply there.  
  
Smiling slightly to himself, Daisuke's mind was suddenly filled with the lyrics of a song he had heard once, and now barely remembered.  
  
"Called your name today… but no one answers anymore…" He hummed quietly into the stillness. Scanning his scarred left arm, he searched for a fresh patch of skin, someplace the razor blade hadn't yet touched. He got many inquires about the scars, of course, but usually covered up with the explanation that he had derived a lot of injuries from the soccer field. Ken, having played soccer for an equally long time, didn't quite understand how so many scars could have developed, but never pushed the subject. The majority of Daisuke's friends believed this method of the injuries' appearances, however, and it had never been a problem severe enough for concern.  
  
"Since you left that day, I realized my mind's made up on you." Daisuke's lips shifted into a calm smile as he spotted an area of tanned, unscarred skin on the underside of his arm, and the fingers of his right hand closed tightly around the razor blade. "My heart has capsized and I don't know what I'm gonna do."  
  
The incision wasn't large. A thin red line, about an inch in length. A small drop of blood slid off his skin and splattered on the glistening white floor, tarnishing it. Another drop followed, and another.  
  
"Pick me up, tape me together…"  
  
The pain seemed calm and logical. He expected this. He deserved this. He wanted this. Sliding the gleaming silver metal across his skin again, slightly deeper this time, Daisuke smiled genuinely at the crimson blood, such a dark shade of red it appeared nearly black, rolling over his fingers and dropping to the floor, staining the perfection.  
  
"…paper pieces on the floor…"  
  
With a sudden snap from outside the window, the outdoor sprinklers kicked on without warning. Jumping at the sudden intrusion of the heavy mid-summer silence, Daisuke's fingers lost control of the tiny razor blade, slashing a deep wound across the vein of his wrist.  
  
"Shit!" He yelped before he could stop himself, watching in horror as the blood seeped from the new cut. This wasn't the way it was with his other incisions, the blood didn't come a drop at a time. It gushed, splattering across the perfect white linoleum and seeping into the hems of his pajamas. It was as if he had opened a floodgate. He could control how much blood came out of his normal cuts; it was out of his control now. There was no stopping this. No turning back. He couldn't explain this away; he could already hear the Ichijouji family stirring, awakened by his yell.  
  
Scrambling for a strip of toilet paper to slow the blood pouring from his wrist, the teenager slipped gracelessly on the puddle of blood forming beneath him and crashed to the ground, a flailing hand sending the razor blades flying as well. The word "no" echoed across his thoughts repeatedly, as if stuck on autopilot. He could hear Ken knocking on the bathroom door, asking if he was okay, but he couldn't react, couldn't think. Rationality was gone. His body visibly shook with the desire to stop the bleeding, to live. He had never wanted to kill himself; he didn't want to die, he couldn't die. Not now. Not now. Clutching his wrist, all he could do was sit and rock back and fourth on the bloodstained tile, razor blades scattered around him.  
  
The bathroom door burst open, Ken's face twisting into a mask of shock and horror as he saw what was behind it. Tears streamed down Daisuke's cheeks, dropping off his chin and splashing onto his pajamas, onto the floor, and onto the wound he was so desperate to slow, stinging bitterly. He vaguely heard Ken turn and scream to his parents to call 911, and felt his unblemished hands carefully extend his bleeding wrist to survey the damage.  
  
"Holy shit, Dai," Ken whispered, shocked, frightened tears choking his voice, "holy shit, what happened? What have you been doing to yourself?"  
  
"Pick me up, tape me together," came the quiet reply, "paper pieces on the floor…" The words became a plea. Daisuke's eyes pleaded with Ken's not to let him die that night as he sang softly into the chaos, the mess he had created. "I'm calling out to you, but you turn, yes you turn away…" He begged his friend not to leave him. To stay with him. To get him through this, to not forget him. "Pick me up… tape me together… paper pieces on the floor…"  
  
Suddenly shutting out the sounds of his mother's terrified wail, his father's desperate babbling as he attempted to inform the Motomiyas there had been an accident, and the shrill wail of the ambulance in the distance, Ken's arms wrapped around the bleeding teenager before him, pressing his hand against the wound as tears flew down his cheeks and the deep, rich mid-summer silence closed in on them once again, sitting surrounded by pools of blood and shining shards of metal, stained perfection.  
  
"…paper pieces on the floor… on the floor…"  
  
  
  
A.N.: …well! I certainly feel better. ^^; It was a tad-bit creepy, I know, but it just fit the song so WELL. o So, take a minute out of your very, very busy lives to tell me if you liked it, if you didn't, if you think I belong in solitary confinement or what, mmkay? I'll write something less… gothic (x.x;) next time. Really. I will. 


End file.
